The Children of the White Dragon
by Valorous Heart
Summary: Having lost all his memory, a young boy joins the ranks of the mighty Space Marines to discover his past...and his future. Currently accepting OCs! See guidelines for submissions.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

* * *

The moon shone behind the parting clouds, casting faint light upon the sky as he danced in the darkness of the night.

His motions were simple yet precise, calm yet swift, controlled yet powerful, each of his strokes, steps, and cuts purposeful and willed. Despite his enormous frame, he carried himself with awesome grace only the most skilled acrobats might aspire to emulate. The formidable armor encasing his solid form did very little to hinder his motions, instead imbuing a certain aura of power and even terror.

There was a primal fury and vitality of a living being that stripped everything mechanic from the colossus of ceramite.

Setting his right foot squarely into the muddy ground, the warrior raised both hands and caught a gleam of moonlight on the sharp end of his elaborate power katana. The shine of silver light arched down along descending blade edge, interrupted only by periodic currents of blue lightning running through the metal surface, to finally dissipate as a downward stroke sliced off a muscled limb with an almost inaudible squelch.

From the darkness, burning red eyes set on savage green forms rushed at him, malice and hate concentrated into a single-minded bloodlust driving the xeno horde into battle frenzy. Ill-crafted and savage weapons swung from the arms of their masters, so eager to stain their dull edges with human blood. Yet the warrior remained silent and unperturbed, instead continuing his dance of death and carving a bloody ring of gore and slaughter around him.

The wind whistled and howled as the katana swiftly rent the air; blood spilled onto the pristine white surface of his armor, painting a grisly piece of artwork onto a ceramite canvas. The flurry of savage blows, undisciplined stampedes, and unrestrained fury could not even disturb and touch his movements that now bordered on some terrible yet captivating ritual. The beasts roared in frustration and anger even as they came and died again and again; the katana could only howl louder and faster, singing dire songs of death to the enemies of the Emperor.

_Twirl, step, and diagonal slash._ An arm holding a crude choppa soared into the night.

_Slide, parry, and stab._ An ork screamed as it was impaled on the stomach, lifted bodily, and flung into the darkness.

_Double slash, kick, and horizontal cut._ The xeno fell writhing on the ground as guts and chipped bones spilled from its open stomach.

_Block, twist, slash, stab, pause...then vertical slash._ A feral scream ended rudely as a deft stroke cleft the body of an ork down the middle. A cascade of red mist spouted and spurted, feeding the steadily growing pond of xeno blood.

A hail of bullets clanged off uselessly against the viridian pauldron, denting and scratching the sacred emblem to which the warrior swore oath. A pair of emotionless green lenses turned to stare at the offending filth, who, with a guttural scream of joy, continued to spurt out shots from a shoota despite his abysmal aim. A quick thrust of the warrior's left gauntlet, a soft pop as a sharp, wicked blade attached to a length of wire shot out from the wrist, and a final thwump as it plunged into the ork's forehead ended the whole affair. Another xeno went down to join its kin as the wire-blade retracted quickly back into the gauntlet with a whirl.

A monstrous yell and obnoxious words of challenge caught the warrior's attention. A large, brutish Nob charged forth from the throng, defiantly waving a huge axe etched with crude runes. Slabs of metal plates covered its muscle-bound form that easily surpassed 10 feet, topped by a drooling maw and semi-crazed eyes that demanded blood and death. Without skipping a beat, the warrior swung his katana to meet a devastating swing of the ork axe. Just before two weapons could crash into each other, he deftly slid his body out to one side and tilted his weapon so that the incoming blow could merely slide along the yielding blade. The powerful hit was effectively nudged and redirected into a fruitless pound on the ground, while the beast was harshly thrown off balance and toppled forward with the momentum.

With a steely flash, the head of the Nob was instantly ten feet too far away to command its body to recover from the heavy strike.

In the absence of their leader, flames withered away from the eyes of the orks, the primal sensation of fear asserting itself among the gathered aliens. Screams of rage turned into screams of fear, desires of attack melted into desires for retreat, and the mob began to back away collectively. With no hesitation, the warrior was amongst them like wolf among sheep. Like a torrent of river bursting through a flimsy dam, the strength and fury contained and controlled by the calmness of will were now let loose. The slow ritual gave way to a fiesta of flying limbs and waves of crimson, with no room for mercy, no room for hesitation. Such was the will of humanity, that claws that would threaten the existence of mankind would swiftly be cut down and purged. Chorus of enemy screams, thuds, and groans were more glorious to the Emperor's ears than thousand chants of praises from sycophantic pilgrims; for this night, under the shining stars, his servants would carry out his will to the ends of the universe.

Suddenly, the screams stopped. There was no one standing at the field but the warrior; even groans and feeble motions were absent in the empty field. Blood and flesh dripped down as a singular mess along the contours of his no-longer-white power armor. The warrior stood still for a moment, crackling katana held high in his right hand. Slowly, however, the power hummed down, and the blade was sheathed at his waist with a single fluid motion. A second passed where everything was still. Then the silence was broken by a single slow breath exhaling from the grille of the warrior's helmet.

* * *

As the brilliant sun rose to grasp at the darkest reaches of the planet, the day found a lone space marine sitting cross-legged on a hill, amidst a scene of fresh carnage. His hands were slowly wiping a katana laid across his lap with a piece of rag, but the lenses of his helmet were gazing out far into the empty horizon, like an ancient statue in deep thought.

"What's on your mind, brother?"

Another space marine was climbing up the hill towards him, cradling a heavy bolter in his hands.

"Memories," replied the marine. "Times long gone by. Days that no longer seem my own."

"Any nostalgia?"

Hands stopped wiping the blade, and for a split second, his grip tightened around the rag.

Yet, with a decisive shrug, the space marine finally stood up to face his brother.

"No," said Matheas Caverell, Veteran-Brother of the White Dragons Third Company. "Those sentiments have long turned into wind. My life belongs to the Chapter and the Emperor now."

**R&R!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**


	2. Introduction

**Introduction**

Lazarus Sector.

This vast territory of space in Segmentum Tempestus is home to few hundreds of important forge, hive, mining, and agri-worlds, almost all of which

is closely clustered together in a zone known as the Golden River. Massive taxes, produce tithes, equipment, and manpower flowing from this

region makes the sector a crucial asset to the Imperium's fight for survival.

Presence of a great wealth, however, is always accompanied by those seeking to rob it; as such, the Golden River is constantly subject to brutal

Ork Waaaghs, Dark Eldar raids, and Chaos incursions all seeking to profit from the sector's prosperity and decadence. The Golden River inevitably

maintains a heavy presence of several guard regiments, each millions strong, as well as being home to the Steel Guardians Chapter. For many

centuries, the security of the region has been maintained by the vigilance of these brave souls fighting daily to keep the darkness at bay.

Yet, constant warfare in the Golden River means that the forces of the Lazarus Sector has very little occasion to turn their attention towards worlds

that lie far outside the cluster.

The subject in question is the Grey Stars, a miniscule collection of half a dozen or so systems situated near the edge of the sector. While

comparatively insignificant and not too rich in resources, the Imperium still cannot afford to lose control over the area, lest the loss may somehow

inadvertently profit its enemies.

Therefore, the duty to defend the Grey Stars and its inhabitants from the predations of the Emperor's enemies has fallen upon the White Dragons,

one of the most peculiar yet dedicated Space Marine chapters in the Imperium of Men...


	3. Submission Guidelines

**Submission Guideline:**

Dear Readers;

Although I can write this story without any OC submissions, it would help me a great deal if some of the readers (including YOU!!) sent in some bits

of OC-related material to regularly stimulate my creativity. I would appreciate it very much if you did so through either PMs or reviews.

I personally would like to see many different kinds of characters--whether they're good, evil, or ambiguous--from all backgrounds and factions;

allies, rivals, members, or enemies of the White Dragons will be most welcome. However, I must warn you beforehand that I will not be able to put

them all in the story, though I will certainly do my best to make it so. In order to avoid torrents of complaints, angst, or inconveniences, I might from

time to time request certain types of characters as the story progresses. Regardless, everyone is free to send in unique creations they think will

greatly spice up the adventures of our protagonist and the White Dragons anytime.

As for submissions, I would appreciate it if you included as many details about the characters as possible, ranging from perhaps hair color to

favored weapons or their imagined role in the plot. If I feel like I need more details to flesh them out properly, I will contact you to ask for them.

An ideal character sheet would be:

Name:

Age:

Height: (within reasonable range)

Appearance: (Hair, eyes, skin color, build, scars, tattoos, etc.)

Planet of Origin: (Any planet of your creation. Include the type (feral, hive, agri-world, etc) and brief description of the planet)

Background Story:

Personality:

Weapon Specialty: (The weapons the character is most skilled at)

Best Suited For: (For Space Marines only. The role he is most suited for; for example, assault marine, chaplain, librarian, etc.)

Signature Weapons as a Veteran: (The White Dragons veterans can use any weapons they wish. Be creative yet reasonable!!)

Special abilities: (Psyker? Blank?)

Imagined Role in the Story:

Relationship to the main character, if any:

For example-

Name: Matheas Caverell

Age: 14

Height: 5'5''

Appearance: shoulder-length silver hair, purple eyes, somewhat pallid skin, average build

Planet of Origin: Currently unknown due to amnesia

Background Story: Currently unknown due to amnesia

Personality: not very talkative, but observant and patient. Possesses a strong urge to satiate his curiosity all the time, no matter what.

Weapon Specialty: swords & pistols

Best Suited For: Assault Marine

Signature Weapons as a Veteran: master-crafted bolt pistol + Murasame, a relic power katana

Special abilities: a minor psychic ability that allows him to briefly read the enemy's movements

Imagined Role in the Story: central character; story revolves around his adventures in the Chapter

Relationship to the main character, if any: One of the main protagonists

At this point, I would especially like to see some aspirants/neophytes who will accompany my character on his journey to become a space marine.

Some suggested character types are....

A laid-back joker who's also good at thinking quickly on his feet

A brutish, thick-headed youth from a feral world

A stuck-up, humorless, and cynical computer whiz/hacker

A handsome airhead and peacemaker with a psychic potential

Or simply anyone interesting you might come up with!

Now, without further a due, I shall begin my story...


	4. The Hunter and the Prey

**Chapter 1: The Hunter and the Prey**

**

* * *

**

The boy awoke with a splitting headache.

A damaged light bulb hung limp from the metal ceiling, flickering faintly as it cast faint shadows onto the floor. Smell of acrid smoke and haze hung heavily in the air, making breathing rather a difficult task. In the gloom, panic seized the boy even as he tried in vain to regain his bearings. His body felt heavy and ached; waves of nausea tormented his consciousness as his lungs desperately grasped for whatever oxygen was available. His mind was suspended in a limbo, paralyzing all faculties of rational thought. Something felt wet. The boy slowly stared down to his right arm to find his long sleeve torn, revealing many bruises....and blood trickling down his forearm.

The very sight of blood immediately kicked up something in him, sending his abused body into convulsions as the boy lurched forward to empty the contents of his stomach onto the floor. Harsh and dry coughs escaped his lips as the boy mustered enough strength at last to let loose a string of curses. Despite the endemic pain, vomiting however did clear up a portion of his nausea to at last allow a coherent command to form inside him.

_I need to get some air. _

The boy weakly crawled to the opposite wall, and grasping the railing, slowly lifted himself to his feet. His body protested, but clenched teeth and newfound urge for sustenance overcame his present condition at the moment. He hobbled a few steps forward, his hands gripping the railing for support. He will be able to move on, for now. The boy looked around. It appeared now that he was in what appeared to be a dilapidated corridor, with a door on each end. A large pile of debris was blocking one of them, but the other door seemed relatively undamaged. Wherever it may lead, it was evidently the only way available to him at the moment.

_Alright. _

Even as the boy staggered towards the door, however, questions slowly started to pour into his consciousness. Despite his present condition, some movement seemed to have reenergized his mind once more. With it, one question in particular resonated boldly before him.

_Where the skak was he? _

The metal door was charred and scratched on its surface, but the glowing switch on the panel next to it indicated that it was still operable. The boy's hand hovered above it but paused as if sudden doubts—or was it fear?— surfaced about what he was just about to do. What would he find in there? What if he found something…potentially dangerous? The boy coughed again as stench of smoke stung his nose.

_But then again, did he even have a choice? _

As the door slid open with a faint hiss, the boy felt his mouth drop, sensing his previous questions dissolve only to be replaced with more questions.

His mind overwhelmed with wonder, the boy entered to find himself on what appeared to be a spacious bridge of a ship. _Or what it used to be_, the boy mused as he cautiously ventured through the thick smoke, pile of debris on the floor, and crackling sparks showering from the ceiling. The bridge was a complete carnage, as if a massive battle had taken place. Almost every single piece of equipment was indeed wrecked beyond recognition. Small flickers of fire licked at the rapidly blackening control boards; severed cables were aimlessly flailing about, power uselessly discharging into thin air; thin cracks had appeared on the viewing screens, which were only buzzing static at the moment. Many small holes were burnt and drilled into the walls, blackening the surface around them with soot and ash. _Lasfire_, the boy realized with growing alarm as he cautiously ventured forward.

_Just what had happened here?_

He felt his foot tread on something soft. With a cry, the boy leapt back as he looked down the floor to see a body sprawled out in a pool of dark blood. The corpse had been disemboweled by something sharp, and the twisted agony frozen onto his macabre face made clear that his final moments had not been too peaceful. Intestines spilled out from his gaping stomach onto the floor, small cockroaches skittering amidst the gory remains. As the boy stared around in abject horror, he began to notice, under the thin veil of smoke, other bodies littering the bridge. All appeared human and evidently subject to great and unspeakable abuses. Some too had been eviscerated, but others were missing eyes, ears, tongues, or even heads. Limbs and body parts were smeared on the wall with abandon, giving off a despicable stench. The boy felt his bowel heave slightly as he spied a body that appeared to have been totally flayed.

_What on Terra had he stumbled onto? _Panicked thoughts blindly raced through his mind as the boy looked around desperately for another door. The sheer brutality here was too much for his senses at the moment. But was there any place on this ship that was free from carnage? He had hoped to find some stability and relief, but rather seemed to found more trouble and questions needing answers.

Then turning right, the boy found himself staring into a face.

He froze for a moment with terror, until the boy realized that he was actually looking into his own reflection on a large window. Entranced, he stepped closer to the image, oblivious for a moment to the dire strait he currently found himself in.

A rather pale face stared back at him against the backdrop of dark space, crowned by unkempt shoulder-length curly silver hair and a pair of violet eyes. He cut a rather thin figure, he noticed, although his height seemed to reach nearly about five-foot-five. For that brief moment, the boy forgot all the horrors, the smell, and the atrocity on the bridge. Wonderment, fatigue, and fear whirled as one upon his face, as the boy slowly reached up to the reflection as to feel it. The window glass felt cold to touch, but the unexpected pleasure of at last knowing his appearance was welcoming….until another questions popped in to ruin the serenity.

_Who was he, really?_

To much of his consternation, the boy suddenly realized that no matter how hard he tried, he could not remember anything about himself. Any attempts to reach within the deepest depths of his mind were met with headaches and scattered tidbits of details that combined to mean nothing. Even his own name escaped him. Was he suffering from amnesia? Painful headaches seemed to vouch his theory for sure, although the revelation did very little to cheer him. Here he was, stuck on a derelict ship without a clue about his own identity. Could he be more vulnerable?

The boy suddenly noticed on his reflection, to his delight, that a small nametag was pinned to the breast of his ragged shirt. Eagerly, he tore it off and rubbed its tarnished surface to read a name written in faded letters.

_Matheas Caverell _

The boy stood transfixed, his mouth wording the name again and again. _Matheas Caverell…was this his name? _The boy waited to see if the name triggered some automatic response from his mind, but none came. The name remained alien to him and no associated memories manifested themselves. Still....it was his name, wasn't it? Otherwise why would it be pinned on his shirt in the first place? Perhaps he would start to remember something once he started throwing the name around for himself....

Matheas Caverell, an amnesiac boy on a derelict ship. It was not the most fanciful title to have, but it was a start.

* * *

Matheas had just begun to turn away from the window when he heard it. It was rather low at first, but quickly, a high-pitched cackle began to ring somewhere outside the bridge. Sound of scurrying footsteps immediately followed, growing louder as it drew near.

Fear once again seized him. He had momentarily forgotten how dangerous his current situation was. The discovery of his name had dispelled any notion of speculating that perhaps, whatever foul creatures that had wreaked such carnage still remained on board.

He was in big trouble.

Matheas looked around for something he could defend himself with. One of the corpses sprawled near him held a laspistol in his grip, which Matheas proceeded to tug out. The energy cell was still almost full, he noticed, probably due to the relatively quick demise of its owner and hence only a short period of time to actually use the weapon. Still, he knew that the new acquisition would not serve him better than it had for other unfortunate deceased. Whatever would come through here would probably rip him into pieces more easily than it had others. He wouldn't make a stand, no; the best course of action here was to hide.

Matheas then noticed a door half-obscured behind a pile of rubble. He tugged it to find it open, to his relief, and quickly slid in. By now the footsteps have grown definitely distinct; someone—or something—was definitely on its way here. Matheas closed the door firmly behind him and looked around. He was now in what appeared to be cavernous cargo storage, filled with rows or metal containers and boxes. Dim light illuminated the various junk and tools lying strewn about the narrow paths between the container piles.

It was an ideal hiding spot.

Matheas quickly moved deep into the room, and choosing a tall pile of crates off to the sides, slid into the space between the wall and the containers. It was not a wide fit—he could only slightly lean against the wall standing up rather than crouching down—but would nevertheless serve as an inconspicuous sanctuary. Besides, the location offered a good vantage point from which he could get a decent view of the storage entrance through the small gap between the crates. Now all he could do was to wait and pray that whatever was on board with him would not think about searching here. Seconds passed, then minutes, until Matheas lost the sense of time entirely. He started to feel cramps creeping up his legs, but still, a part of him instinctively knew better than to venture out. Whatever danger that lay out there would be probably still lurking about. Better to remain hidden than not. Even so, Matheas hoped. Was he really well-hidden? There would be no chance in Throne that he would be found—

Then, with only the smallest of sound, the door slid open with a creak.

Matheas's insides turned cold.

Poking in just enough to get a good look around the room was a face from a nightmare, one that would haunt a mortal man for days and nights. Thin yet roughly humanoid, pointed ears, jet black eyes sans iris, and thin lips constituted to form a feature both inhuman and alarming. But the most terrifying aspect of the creature was the sheer aura of malice and cruelty that it exuded from beneath its pale skin. Despite the nonchalant expression it took as its eyes scanned back and forth, Matheas knew at once that this xeno was capable of immense brutality and horror upon anyone it encountered. A single name emerged from deep within his consciousness to enunciate the source of his fear in a more concrete form.

_A Dark Eldar. _Terror reigned inside Matheas's mind.

Matheas held his breath as the alien took a few more cursory scans, fortunately looking not too interested in his duty. Presently, it began to turn away, drawing his head back past the door. Matheas's heart leapt. It hadn't found him at all; the alien would be on its way....

* * *

Then halfway out the door, the eldar suddenly paused, hesitating for a tad moment. This time, it quickly stepped past the door once more in a single stride, with a frown and curiosity etched onto its face. It cocked its head to the side as if pondering something, blinking several times. Then it _sniffed_, and gradually, a look of raw excitement and giddiness overtook its features. Gracefully, it bounded into the storage and eagerly began to look about.

_Whatever on Terra was it doing? _Matheas thought with growing alarm. What could he be possibly drawing him back—

Then it hit him. Half-wishing that his realization was incorrect, Matheas slowly looked down to his right arm. Although the blood flow had been relatively slowed by now, his arm still shone red with fresh blood, glistening under the dim light. And it stank. A lot.

Panicking, Matheas tried to dry the blood with his shirt, only to freeze when the eldar suddenly called out into the room.

"I know you are in here, little mon-keigh...."

The dark eldar's voice was curiously accented, his low Gothic pronounced with a slight lisp; but the sheer malice and hunger dripping from every syllable were unmistakably manifest, each word sending shiver down Matheas's spine. It had sensed his presence; now it was going to hunt for him.

"Come out, come out....wherever you are...."

A quick glimpse through a small gap between the crates offered Matheas a better sight of the alien. It was now slowly advancing through the boxes with alarming grace, darting here and there as if it was floating in the air. The xeno was morbidly thin yet lithe, its figure accentuated by black and purple spiked armor that hugged its form. A combination of long hair rising in a topknot, emaciated-looking face, a pair of glittering black eyes, and a gaping mouth full of needle sharp teeth looked even more nightmarish closer up. Matheas shuddered at the thought of being in the clutches of one such creature.

The eldar drew closer and closer to his hiding spot, its fingers twitching as if itching to grab at something. About five feet away, the alien paused and sniffed at the air, letting out a hiss of satisfaction. Matheas could hear its ragged breath loudly and clearly from his hiding spot.

"You're here somewhere, little fly, close by....I can smell your fear....I can smell your blood...."

Matheas shut his eyes and caught his breath, silently praying that the alien will not find him. Imagination was a killer, and its dark tendrils were slowly invading his consciousness, immobilizing him and sending cold sweats and shudders breaking out from his body.

"I don't mean any harm, mon-keigh....I just want to have a little...._fun_, that's all."

The xeno's voice turned sickly sweet now, though its coaxes hardly masked its malicious intent. Harsh screeches resonated as it ran its sharp nails over a metal container. Matheas gritted his teeth as goose bumps rose from his skin. The sheer terror of the situation, combined with the psychological pressure, was almost unbearable. He could only pray that the moment will pass soon.

_Emperor on Terra, protect your child in distress, and may I live on to serve your glorious name...._

The silent prayer was spilling out of his mouth before he knew it. Was this something he had been taught before? It was as if he had memorized it to heart such as to utter it automatically. The sheer vulnerability devouring him inside out was calling urgently for some other form of self-assurance, and the soothing effect of the prayer, however marginal, was welcome.

Suddenly, Matheas realized that everything had grown silent; he could not hear the sound of breathing nor any movement from the eldar. He stole another peek through the gap, only to find the alien gone from the spot. Where has it gone? Could it have possibly moved on without finding him—though unlikely—perhaps given up on his search? Matheas tried to crane his neck outwards to get a better view.

"Here you are...."

Matheas jerked his gaze upwards, his jaw involuntarily dropping in surprise. Perched on top of the crate pile and leering down at him was the eldar, looking smug and happy about its discovery, Razor sharp teeth filled its wide smile in a neat row, glistening bright with saliva. It reached down its hand, its long wry fingers topped with sharp nails outstretched wide.

Perhaps it was lucky that quick thinking managed to reach Matheas just before fear did. Mustering all his strength, Matheas braced his back against the wall and pushed against the pile of crates with both feet. The pile tottered, and even before the eldar could react, it toppled to the floor with a resounding crash. Clouds of dust rose into the air, obscuring the sight of his work. Scrambling to his feet, Matheas ran towards the back of the storage without looking back, weaving through the crates and dodging low-hanging pipes. Harsh laughter echoed from behind him, and as Matheas stole a peak to his right, he spied, with horror, that the eldar was catching up to him with ease, that horrible smile still hanging from its face. Leaping from crate to crate, the eldar almost seemed lazy about his pursuit; it was obvious that it could overtake its prey anytime he wanted. Matheas realized that the alien was in fact toying with him, savoring the moment and choosing the time of his demise at leisure. Helplessness swooped down onto him like wind even as he tried all the more to gain speed.

Without a sound, the eldar gracefully landed a few feet in front of him, barring Matheas' path.

"Fight! Struggle all you want, mon-keigh!! I want my prey fresh and kicking when I take my knife to it!!"

The eldar cackled wildly as it closed the distance with alarming speed. Panicking, Matheas managed to bring his laspistol to bear, only to have it flying out of his hand with a powerful swipe. For having a slim figure, the dark eldar was surprisingly strong. The laspistol fell far behind him somewhere with a loud clatter.

Disarmed, Matheas now turned and fled back the way he came, his legs straining to carry him forward as far as possible. Still he knew it wasn't enough. He was like a fly caught in a spider's web.

"Where are you going, little fly? Entertain me!! Show me what you can do…"

The voice of the eldar rose behind him, followed by another cackle of laughter. _Still not running him down_, Matheas thought. This alien was determined to sate his appetite for pleasure to the fullest. But he would deny it, not out of some determination, but purely out of fear and desire for flight.

Matheas took a right turn in between two large containers and skidded into a halt, pressing himself tight against the metal wall. His lungs gasped for breath as sweat and grime slowly but inexorably soiled his tattered clothes. Clearly, taking flight was not working out to his advantage nor was it even helping him to avoid his fate. He would have a better chance of survival if he faced the danger head on.

His tired mind didn't even grasp the ridiculousness or the sheer impossibility of the idea at that moment.

Matheas saw a single crowbar lying on top of one of the crates and picked it up. Though it was quite heavy, he could heft it quite well with both of his hands. Drawing close to his chest, Matheas waited, trying his best to stifle his ragged breath and thumping heartbeat. Although soft, the eldar's footsteps were audible and growing louder as it drew near. His grip on the crowbar tightened as the prolonged wait magnified his fears tenfold, the image of possible dire consequences of failure finally starting to register in his mind. But it was simply too late to turn back now. With a loud cry, Matheas leapt as soon as a lithe form appeared in his sight.

Matheas wildly swung at the eldar, his body almost toppling forward with momentum. Despite the evident advantage in surprise, however, the alien avoided the blow almost lazily as if it had been expecting him. The stroke only landed on a nearby metal crate, drawing a shower of sparks upon impact. Before Matheas could recover, the eldar lashed out and backhanded him savagely. Stars flashed before his eyes as Matheas forcefully crashed onto the floor, even as he felt his right cheek swell and his mouth fill with blood. His crowbar slipped out of his grasp with a clatter. The eldar slowly walked up to him, a look of disdain and scorn etched onto its horrible visage.

"Stand up and fight, you wretch!!! I demand to be entertained!!!"

The alien kicked at him, only drawing out coughs and sputters from the boy.

"My, my. Out of count already? Tut tut tut. And to think I have been expecting more from this pathetic mongrel. What a useless specimen, even for a mon-keigh."

Matheas managed to raise himself halfway as he coughed out a broken tooth. The xeno was now drawing out a serrated knife from its belt, eyeing him and licking its lips.

"I guess I have no use for you now....But on the other hand.... I haven't had any breakfast yet. Yes, and young mon-keigh flesh would be very tender and juicy...."

Softly chuckling, the dark eldar slowly advanced upon him, apparently savoring the look of desperation and fear on its prey's face. Matheas could only clench his eyes shut as he half-heartedly massaged his throbbing arm. He had run out of options now; there was no way he could outrun the alien let alone defeat it. The only fate in store for him was to nourish the alien as his morning meal; he had been doomed from the moment it caught the scent of his blood.

Weak laughter escaped from his lips. Was this the fate in store for him, to die without knowing who he was?

* * *

_Get up! Live! _

* * *

Time seemed to slow into a grinding halt as Matheas flinched with surprise. Did he just....hear a voice? There didn't seem to be anyone else in here besides him and the eldar. The next thing he knew, however, Matheas noticed with surprise that his body was beginning to respond automatically, filled with a sudden urge to move. It was as if he knew at the most basic level to obey whoever spoke to him. He fumbled around for his crowbar and grabbed it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Matheas spied a rusty oil sprayer—mainly used for lubricating machinery, perhaps—discarded onto the floor a few distance from him. A desperate plan then formed in his head, sounding more foolhardy than viable. Yet there was no time even to consider its chances of success. The only option left now was to act on instinct and forego the usual logical process of mind. Gathering all his strength, Matheas leapt just as the eldar struck, his body driven only by a concentrated primal desire for survival and self-preservation.

He felt the blade slice through his pants and across his right thigh, burning pain erupting from the wound as he hit the floor. Somehow by some miraculous chance, he was still holding onto the heavy crowbar. Gritting his teeth, Matheas scrambled up to snatch the oil sprayer from the floor with his free hand. Aiming the stout nozzle at the eldar, he squeezed the handle frantically, prayer of libation passing through his head in a flash. With a squelch, a jet of black oil squirted and spouted from the sprayer and splashed the alien. Streams of ooze dripped from its armor and its pointed visage.

The eldar's expression took on that of surprise, but quickly changed to accommodate irritation and sneer. With a snarl, the eldar began to close the gap between him in strides.

"Is that all you could come up with, mon-keigh? As to be expected from a primitive mongrel....your kind's stupidity never ceases to amuse me…."

Gathering up all the remaining will inside him, Matheas brought his crowbar above his head and swung as hard as he could against the metal pipe next to the eldar.

With a harsh screech, shower of sparks cascades from the impact onto the xeno.

With a loud whoosh, the oil coating the xeno burst into flame as sparks ignited upon impact. In an instant, the dark eldar was enveloped in flame, his armor, skin and flesh starting to burn with an acrid smell. A shrill scream of agony echoed through the air as it flailed about, its dagger swinging with wild abandon. Matheas' relief was however brief, as the stricken eldar suddenly began to advance upon him with alarming speed, lashing out with frenzy. Its eyes burned with unmitigated hatred, seeming to ignore all the pain. Matheas barely managed to avoid a single slash that left a large cut on his shirt.

His right foot caught something metallic as he backed against the wall; Matheas looked down to see his lost laspistol just lying next to him. The sheer luck of it would've made him laugh at the incredulousness of it, but time did not allow for such an occasion. Snatching it up, Matheas began to shoot blindly at the stumbling eldar. The first shot caught the alien on the shoulder, burning off a portion of his armor, but the subsequent blasts punched straight through more vulnerable areas now exposed by the burning fire. Taking a few more steps forward, the eldar fell onto its knees, little flames still crackling and eating away its flesh. A final shot to the head finally took it to the ground where it lay still, smoldering and smoking.

Matheas slowly let out a ragged breath as he lowered his pistol and leaned against the wall. He had been on the verge of a gruesome death only to come back alive. As a matter of fact, he shouldn't have. That a young boy like him could defeat a full-grown alien all by himself was simply impossible. If only the eldar had not let down his guard and decided to toy with his prey, thought Matheas, it would've been using his flayed skin as a handkerchief by now. Silently, he gave a brief prayer to the emperor for his generous gift of protection and luck.

A sudden pain reminded Matheas of the earlier injury he had received. His right thigh sported a shallow but painful gash where the eldar's knife had nicked him. It will heal if treated, Matheas noticed, although the wound was strangely sizzling. Wobbling to his feet, Matheas stared once again at the eldar's body lying in front of him. It lay still, burnt beyond all recognition now and still smoking. It seemed hard to believe that it had once been a creature that almost took his life.

"Entertained now?" Matheas whispered, although he was not really in a mood to gloat. He still needed to find a way off the ship and find a place where he could recuperate safely. Turning away, Matheas took a couple steps forward. He was still in one piece, and for the moment, Matheas felt something similar to satisfaction creeping up to his consciousness.

* * *

"I wouldn't celebrate too soon....mon-keigh."

Relief dissipated as quickly as it had come, only to reform as a singular lump of terror and despair as Matheas slowly turned. Three dark eldars were standing over the burnt body of their comrade with wicked smiles on their faces. They were similarly dressed as their recently deceased comrade, although more heavily armed. Exotic but deadly looking pistols and blasters hung from their backs and waists, spiked armor snugly fitting their lithe forms. He had not even heard them come up.

The expressions of glee on their faces were as if they had just realized their birthdays had come early this year around.

Matheas felt his legs give away before him, his will to resist draining. Fatigue and an inexplicable dizziness were overtaking his consciousness. He sank down to the floor, laspistol slowly slipping out of his grasp.

One of the eldar looked down on the burnt corpse with disgust and spat, chuckle of disdain emanating from its throat.

"Looks like this mon-keigh filth got the best of Daru'kel. What a disgrace."

"I knew he was a weakling from the moment I saw him, the fool. He's no better than the primitive mongrels we hunt." agreed the second xeno, kicking at the body in vain anger.

"Still....he was so gracious enough to leave behind a living prey for us to play with." The last dark eldar stared at Matheas hungrily, slowly licking its lips. "It'll be so much fun, no? I've been

actually dying to try out this new...."technique" I've learned from a Haemonculus I know of...."

Matheas felt a chill of deepest fear running through his spine, even as the edges of his vision began to blur. It felt so hard to keep his head up.

"Hmm, we would best hurry though," the second dark eldar mused. "It looks like our little friend here has been affected by our venom. He doesn't have too much time...."

Matheas looked down to see that the veins on his right thigh were slowly taking on a greenish hue. The knife must've been coated with some sort of toxin, he realized with dread. The leading eldar slowly drew out a wicked dagger from its belt, and licked along the edge of the blade with its tongue. Purple-black blood seeped out from the ensuing lacerations, which the alien proceeded to suck with gusto.

"Now, my little mon-keigh, it's time you learned the true meaning of pain....Oh no, the pain you are feeling now is not even comparable to what I'm about to introduce you. It'll be uncomfortable and not very pretty to look at first....but by the time I put an end to your miserable life, you'll be begging for more...."

The alien cackled loudly as it stepped forward and drew back the weapon high in the air. Matheas could only watch helplessly and pray that the poison would take him before the eldar did.

* * *

Without a warning, a large hole burst from the dark eldar's chest with a deafening roar, showering Matheas with blood and gore. With an expression of malicious glee still frozen upon its twisted visage, the lifeless corpse slowly pitched forward in a collapse.

Even before the xeno's body hit the floor, the second dark eldar's head simply exploded into thin air in a mist of blood and flesh. Its limbs briefly flailed and twitched about its body ridiculously before it, too, fell beside its comrade. The remaining dark eldar, now recovering from initial shock and surprise, whirled around with a snarl, but a huge rumbling chainsword swung out of the gloom and tore into it in a flash, reducing the filth into a steaming pile of viscera in a manner of seconds.

Matheas sat on the floor dumbstruck, his rapidly dimming consciousness overwhelmed by this sudden development.

A terrifying figure emerged from the darkness in front of him, its heavy footsteps shaking the ground with loud thuds. He was over seven feet tall and extremely broad, clad head to toe in a suit of metal-grey power armor. Multiple seals and inscriptions, written in indecipherable letters, adorned its surface. A large chainsword and a massive bolt pistol in his hands only served to make his presence more intimidating. This monstrous colossus—looking so indomitable and smug—was now staring down at Matheas, its red lenses seemingly boring into his very soul.

"Are you all right, boy?"

A deep, metallic growl emanated from the grille of the giant's helmet, more menacing than friendly. Despite his best efforts to reply, Matheas felt his body grow weaker, courtesy of the xeno poison crippling his body and perhaps, the shock of his recent encounter. He fell back to the floor feebly, and saw the ceiling spinning faster and faster as the room grew darker. His mind grew numb, the familiar sensation of pain enveloping his senses.

The last thing Matheas felt before darkness finally took him was a pair of enormous arms stooping to pick him up with surprising gentleness.

* * *

**Sorry for the delay!!! R & R!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**


	5. Deliverance

**First off, I apologize for the long delay, for those who had been waiting on my humble piece. I've been rather busy so far—traveling and stuff—so there hasn't been much time to catch up on my little hobby. From here on, I will try to be more regular.**

**Second, as a general notice, some parts of my story will strike some readers as being a little awkward or lacking in proper grammar. This is because English is technically not my first language; writing this piece therefore serves me a double purpose of having fun while improving my English writing skills. So please feel free to give constructive comments on what I put out—no flames please! :) After all, I do wish to get better as I write along….**

**

* * *

****Chapter 2: ****Deliverance**

* * *

"….So, Brother Harkon, how does the boy fare?"

Two immense figures made their way down a well-kept corridor. Both were clad in sturdy power armors, one metal gray and the other white. Upon inquiry, the man in white glanced down at the data slate he held and scanned its contents.

"Well, he did sustain some severe cuts and internal injuries, and the xeno venom had wreaked havoc throughout his nervous system. Luckily, I had managed to check the infection in time and stabilize him, put him in a coma for the past three days. He is in a relatively poor condition, but he lives….for now."

The apothecary paused and shook his head in astonishment.

"It's simply a miracle that he managed to survive. That kind of physical trauma would've killed an ordinary man outright. But I had received word from the ward only yesterday that he was already coming around. An amazing display of endurance, I must say."

The man in the gray armor grimly nodded.

"What do we know about him so far?"

"Actually, very little. I managed to question the boy when he regained his consciousness, but the only information I could obtain was his name: Matheas Caverell. He knows nothing else about himself," Brother Harkon let out a little sigh. "He thinks he has amnesia."

"Does he?"

"Scans show signs of blunt trauma on the back of his skull. Not strong enough to cause fracture but perhaps strong enough to cause some shock to his neocortex. I need to keep him under watch a few more days to know for certain."

"What about the ship itself? Did we find anything on it that might help with the situation?

"Unfortunately not, captain. Our brothers swept the ship clean and rooted out all traces of xeno taint, but there was very little we could learn. The ship's systems have been completely trashed beyond repair, even beyond the capabilities of Brother Remius to restore the machine spirit. The logs, the navigation records, cargo manifest, every piece of data aboard were irretrievable."

"Is that so?"

"Even the bodies didn't tell us much about the identity of the crew or their ship. But…"

"But?"

"The warp drive engine was still scalding hot when we reached it, indicating that the ship had come out of the warp not too long ago. My guess is that the dark eldar pounced as soon as the ship came out of the transit, boarded it, and killed everyone. Our boy would've suffered his cranial injuries during the ensuing skirmish."

The Captain grimly nodded.

"Pity we don't have Librarian Bernardi with us. He might've been able to pick up whatever we might've missed…. But in the meantime, let's just thank the Emperor the boy managed to keep his life. He could've fared much worse."

"Agreed, Captain."

The two giants stopped next to one of the doors, which slid open with a faint hiss. They were greeted by a sight of a recuperation room, currently occupied by a single boy lying on a bed. Several tubes ran from a bag of medical fluids suspended by a rack into his arm. Though thoroughly bandaged and looking rather haggard, the boy jerked to attention upon the giants' entry. Violet eyes under puffed up eyelids and bruises darted about, eagerly taking in the details and every move made by the newcomers.

"At ease, boy. It's best you rest your wounds for now."

The man in the metal grey armor marched up beside the bed, and studied the stricken boy curiously. Matheas did not avert his gaze, but warily looked back, seemingly unafraid.

"I'm Captain Darios Cyriel of the Steel Guardians Chapter, and this is Brother Harkon, our apothecary. How are you feeling, boy?"

"Much better, sir, thank you," Matheas replied with some effort, his voice hoarse. But he knew that the truth was far from it. Despite the long rest, his body still ached and burned with every move. At nights, terrible visions of his ordeal haunted his dreams, leaving him sweating and shivering. Still, Matheas was grateful for where he was now. His current suffering seemed insignificant compared to what he had gone through only days before.

"Where am I, sir?"

"You are aboard our strike cruiser, _Relentless Vigilance_, currently nearing the eastern border of the Golden River. It's already been three days since we've found you on that derelict ship."

Three days, Matheas silently mouthed to himself. Has it already been that long? His sense of time had been distorted ever since the encounter on the ship. From one nightmare or painful fits to the next, seconds became hours and hours became seconds. They ceased to hold any significance for him whatsoever.

"So you say you don't remember anything," the captain asked, his face abruptly turning stern.

"Yes, sir. None whatsoever."

"So the only thing you found out about yourself is your name? There is nothing else you can remember?"

"No, sir. Not at all," Matheas replied. The space marine stared at him a little longer before turning away. As he did so, Matheas thought he could detect a faint trace disappointment and annoyance on the captain's face.

"You might not be aware of this, boy, but you currently pose a small problem for us," the captain spoke, his gaze now fixed out the nearby window.

"Sir?"

"Our forces had been en route to a warzone to crush a xeno incursion when we found you adrift in space. According to protocols, those not affiliated with our chapter cannot remain on board during emergencies without official approval," Captain Cyriel said with a slight frown. "Especially someone we know very little and can't tell us much….which means, we'll need to let you off as soon as possible before continuing on our way."

Matheas's stomach churned at the prospect of leaving his newfound safety. At his present condition, it was highly unlikely that he would fare well no matter where he ended up.

"On the other hand, our ship will not cross paths with any planet until we reach our destination, nor do we have time to make a detour exclusively for your benefit. This means….that we are left with a dilemma."

"Would you have let me remain here had I remembered anything?" Matheas asked forlornly.

"We still wouldn't have allowed you to stay, but might have at least waited until you had fully recovered. Know that we must strictly adhere to our standard procedures when occasions call for it. For all intentions and purposes, you might actually turn out to be a spy of Chaos or infected by the genestealers."

Matheas opened his mouth to protest, only for Captain Cyriel to interject.

"I am sure you are not either of those. Our initial scans showed me you were clear from both Chaotic and xeno taints. Your memory loss, however, complicates the matter a bit. Without a way to know for sure, we need to take the best precautions as we can in the meantime."

Matheas silently cursed his ill fortune. Had he possessed some means of ingratiating himself with his hosts, then his future prospects would've definitely been looking better. With a sudden stroke of inspiration, he almost started to mention that tiny voice back on the ship, but quickly caught himself in time. Some part of him seemed to argue that this was not the best time to divulge that detail; besides, revealing such a delicate matter might complicate his delicate situation even further. He had no card to play at the moment.

"So what will happen to me?"

Captain Cyriel shrugged. "I suppose the best course of action here is to put you inside an escape pod along with some supplies, eject it with a distress signal on, and hope that another ship will pick you up in due time."

Matheas felt as if his heart had instantly frozen in place. Had he heard correctly? If he was not mistaken, the space marines were actually considering abandoning him to the depths of space….with no guarantee of immediate salvation. Fear and panic flooded back inside and gnawed him to the core.

"Surely you jest, sir!" Matheas cried out, all sense of politeness momentarily forgotten.

"Again, this ship is not a personal coach you can rest in at leisure, boy. Furthermore, if you haven't heard correctly, we are making all haste to reach a warzone even as we speak. We need to do what is efficient, not necessarily desirable"

There was no need for a second glance to check the sincerity of the captain's words. Desperation crept into Matheas's heart even as he sought for a way out in vain.

"Please, sir. You can't do this to me! I'm begging you to reconsider!"

"Supplications are useless here, boy. As sympathetic as your plight may be, the mandate of the Emperor takes precedence. We as his servants are obliged to carry it out without hesitation."

"Surely, there may be some way I could be of use to you! A servant, perhaps-"

"Calm yourself," the apothecary interjected. "Contrary to your fears, spending time alone in space may not be as dangerous as you think. I have seen others who had suffered worse fates. With faith in the Emperor, you will be in safe hands in no time."

"But what about my condition?"

"We estimate that at the rate you are healing, combined with our treatment, you will at least be able to move around without considerable pain in about two day's time. Besides, there won't be much room to move around in the pods, so the rest of your recovery could be made during your stay there."

"Still-"

"Consider it a privilege that we are even allowing you to protest. In other instances, we would've simply thrown you into the pod without any formalities Remember you are but one of many insignificant citizens of the Imperium, unable to do any real service to the Emperor."

"But-"

"Enough of this talk!" barked Captain Cyriel as he turned away. "I will spare you two days time. I suggest you make the most of the time and rest up."

"The Emperor protects those who are loyal," said the apothecary as he turned to follow the captain. "Consider this his test for your faith."

Even as the two space marines walked away towards the door, Matheas felt an unspeakable desperation overcoming him. Something drastic needed to be done in order to save himself. If he did not make his point here, nothing would bode well for him afterwards.

He needed to act.

Mustering all the strength he could, Matheas pushed himself out of the bed and fell to the floor with a thump. As the space marines turned, they beheld the sight of a heavily bandaged boy slowly but steadily rising to his feet. Matheas grabbed the railing of the bed as he struggled to support himself upright. Even as excruciating pain shot up through his body, he beheld his hosts with determined eyes.

"With….all….due…..respects, sir….I must refuse….to be thrown out of the ship at your whim!"

Apothecary Harkon started forward with a frustrated look on his face.

"By Emperor, this is not the time to move around like that-"

"I WILL remain as I am, sir, as long as it takes to make my point," Matheas curtly replied through gritted teeth without breaking his eye contact. Reaching up to his left arm, he grabbed at the connected tubes at jerked them off. A fresh jet of clear liquid spurted out uselessly onto the floor. At once, Matheas felt his breath suddenly quicken as the medicine was cut off from his system. Brother Harkon started to protest, only for Captain Cyriel to raise his hand to silence him.

"By what right do you refuse to comply with our protocols?" asked the captain, his voice having taken on a colder edge. "In case you did not notice, our little discussion was not a request, it was an _order_."

"Regardless, I still wish to make my own decision," said Matheas without hesitation.

"And are you aware that anyone who violates our code is subject to the severest punishment?" Captain Cyriel approached Matheas until he was looking straight down at him eye to eye. "Death, to be exact."

Matheas took a deep breath. The stand had reached a climax, and his response shall decide his fate.

"Do whatever you wish, sir, but my decision is final. If I do die, I'd rather die by my own free will than to perish in imprisonment."

Silence settled as Captain Cyriel continued to stare at him, still as a stone statue. Matheas could no longer feel his legs, but squeezed the last bits of his stamina to remain standing. Fear threatened to overtake his heart, testing his nerves every passing second.

* * *

Suddenly, without a warning, Captain Cyriel burst into a loud laughter. Matheas—as well as Brother Harkon—stared, startled by the unexpected reaction. In a single motion, the captain lifted Matheas up bodily and deposited him onto the bed. Even as all remaining strength left him, Matheas realized to his surprise that Captain Cyriel's grim frown had been replaced by a jovial grin.

"Headstrong, willful, and unafraid," said Captain Cyriel. "It would indeed be a waste to throw out an individual with such noble qualities into the coldness of space."

"Does this mean you'll change your mind?" Matheas asked, his heart leaping with newfound hope.

"Normally, I wouldn't," said the space marine. "But I am willing to make an exception every now and then. To such end, I'm sure our chapter could find some use for you. Wouldn't we, Brother Harkon?"

"We could retain him as a Chapter serf," suggested the Apothecary, only to have Captain Cyriel raise his eyebrows.

"Surely you jest. A serf? This boy actually managed to defeat a Dark Eldar, cleverly taking advantage of the creature's foolish pride. Besides, the admirable endurance and strength he displayed is befitting for the most faithful servant of the Emperor."

"Then-"

"Take his blood sample for the gene-seed compatibility test," Captain Hyriel said with an unmistakable gleam of excitement in his eyes. "Emperor willing, he would make a fine recruit for our chapter."

The apothecary nodded and stepped forward towards the bed. Gently grabbing Matheas's arm, he produced a large syringe from his side.

"This will hurt a bit, boy," warned the apothecary as he plunged the needle into Matheas's arm. A sharp pain filled Matheas as the apothecary slowly filled the syringe with blood. A faint dizziness swept through his head, and Matheas shook his head to fight it off. Few seconds later, the apothecary drew back and gently emptied the syringe into a vial attached to a strange machine next to the bed. With a few keystrokes, it came alive with beeps and whirls.

"The analysis is in progress," Brother Harkon explained. "In a few seconds, the results will finally tell us where your destiny lies."

Matheas held his breath. Could it be that a mere boy like him could become a Space Marine? His fortunes seemed to change so quickly over the past few days. He could be the luckiest….or the unluckiest….youth in the entire galaxy.

After a minute or so the machine beeped and its monitor lighted up. At once, Brother Harkon leaned in to scrutinize the results. From where Matheas was lying, he couldn't see the contents of the screen at all.

But the apothecary's expression as it went from a frown to that of astonishment and finally to a curious amusement was certainly telling.

"Interesting….," muttered Brother Harkon as his eyes moved down the chart. "Most interesting…."

"What does it say?" Captain Cyriel was already at his shoulder, peering into the monitor.

"Most unfortunately, the boy's compatibility with our gene-seed only reaches fifteen percent. Bottom line, he can never become a Steel Guardians recruit. However…"

"However?"

"The gamma-two pattern in his blood appears to exceed ninety-five percent. Theoretically speaking, the boy will make a perfect candidate for…._them_."

Captain Cyriel abruptly let out a snort of laughter mixed in with both derision and amusement. Whoever they were referring to, at least it was clear that the Steel Guardians did not hold _them_ in high regard.

"How regretful. To find a promising candidate only to have him snatched from our grasp. But still….this is a matter of doing the best for the Emperor's will. Not to mention we have an ancient pact to uphold…."

"A most curious fate indeed, captain. Although I must say, the boy's talents might as well be wasted under their tutelage…."

"Now, Harkon. Let us not jump into conclusions. Who knows, Emperor willing, he might prove to be a valuable asset for those…._buffoons_."

With that, Captain Hyriel turned to Matheas, a grin of amusement—and disdain, perhaps he thought—still etched onto his face.

"Well, then it is settled….Congratulations, boy. You're going to be a runt marine."

* * *

The guardsman couldn't even get a chance to scream.

Even as the wretch swung his lasgun around, a gauntleted fist rammed into his chest with a force of an autocannon. His lifeless body smashed against the trench wall like a discarded rag doll, viscera of mangled organs and bones spewing from his torn lips. His comrade screamed in terror as he uselessly discharged his weapon against the thick wall of ceramite. A quick swing with a chainaxe produced a thick fountain of blood from where his head had been—a fitting tribute to the Blood God and all his majesty.

Mazakash grinned fiercely as he plunged his hand into the guardsman's corpse and wrenched out his still beating heart. Savoring the warm and raw smell of flesh, he bit into it with relish and chewed, letting drops of blood trickle down his chin. As weak as the guardsmen were, they did however make a rather tasty snack.

The Imperial line had long collapsed into a full rout, save for a few pockets of resistance. Pathetic mobs fled in vain even as Mazakash's brothers fell upon them with wont brutality. The air was thick with stench of smoke and blood, and the field was carpeted with corpses of both men and machine all sacrificed to feed the hunger of the Chaos Gods. Resplendent and horrifying, their loyal servants strolled amidst the carnage like primal demi-gods, their armor adorned with unholy litanies, skulls, trophies, and other accessories all glorifying the powers of Chaos and demanding the fall of the False Emperor. Throngs of cultists prowled alongside their powerful masters, looting bodies, mutilating any survivors, and cutting off grisly trophies for their own perverted pleasures. _Such shall be the fates in store for the servants of the False Emperor_. Mazakash's mangled lips broke into a terrible smile as he made his advance.

A squad of guardsmen—led by a valiant yet foolish sergeant—charged at him, wildly blasting their lasguns without landing a decent hit. Without breaking his stride, Mazakash pulled out his bolt pistol and fired three times, instantly halving the incoming posse. The sergeant lunged at him with a whirring chainsword in hand, but the fallen marine simply swatted the clumsy strike aside with his own, sending the man sprawling to the ground. With an upward stroke, he caught another guardsman across his chest. The massive chainaxe roared to life at once and dug in, felling him with a thick spray of gore. The sergeant had stumbled back onto his feet by now, but a single shot between his eyes put the mortal out of misery. The sole remaining soldier panicked and now turned to flee. Mazakash casually chucked his heavy pistol at the soldier's retreating back, knocking him down with a painful _oomf_. Sauntering up to his struggling prey, he brought a foot up and slammed it down hard onto the guard's horrified face.

Mazakash felt restless and bored, even as he admired the glorious carnage around him. These insects offered no opportunities to test his strength or to win any favors from his dark patrons. For all the blood and destruction he had wreaked, everything had long ground down to a simple routine, one that only utilized the simplest of his faculties. Why was it that they were denied their due of worthy combat? Their self-appointed "_lord"_ had demeaned them for too long already. Unless there was a point to all this nonsense, that this mindless dawdling was a stepping stone in some grand scheme woven together by the higher powers—if there was supposed to be one, he definitely could not see it. Mazakash swore he could've made better choices for their chapter long ago if he had been in charge. Anyone could've.

Some distance down, Mazakash finally found him; surrounded by his retinue, a mighty Chaos Lord was cleaning up—though toying with seemed to be the correct term here—the last vestiges of the Imperial resistance. The towering warrior currently had his immense hand wrapped around the neck of a commissar who, despite his present predicament, was foolishly squirming and kicking in order to assert what was left of his courage and dignity.

"Hail, Lord Valkrum. How goes the battle?"

The Chaos lord broke the neck of the commissar with a flick of his wrist before turning to address Mazakash. He cut and imposing figure, clad in a sickly-green ancient Terminator armor adorned with intricate runes of Chaos, topped by a horned helmet. With one hand, he held a massive power axe inlaid with strange runes, while a plasma pistol hung from his side. Harsh and ragged sounds of breathing emanated from through his breathing apparatus, heightening his already formidable impression.

"Battle you call this, Mazakash? Would you ever believe this bunch of worms could offer a challenge worthy of our attention? Theses blind fools do get softer every time I see them…."

"It would seem so, my lord. It has been too long since our chapter had a proper taste of battle….My brothers and I had all been wondering just how long-."

"Do you mean to challenge my decision, wretch?"

Mazakash quickly regretted his words. Despite his resentment, it was far more important that he remain under good graces of his lord. For all his skills in combat, he had so far failed to garner the attention and favor from the Dark Gods….yet. Now was the time to be cautious.

"Of course not, my lord. I would not dare question your judgment. I merely thought to observe that we had long run out of challenges to test our mettle."

Mazakash silently braced himself for any possible repercussions, but to his relief, Lord Vulkrum merely let out a low chuckle.

"Perhaps so….But not for long, Mazakash….Our master has just spoken to me….he tells us…that it's time we returned to the Golden River."

Slowly, Mazakash's face broke into a savage grin. "So it is time then, my lord."

"Indeed. At long last, the hour of our vengeance is at hand….the lackeys of the False Emperor are decadent and unsuspecting, lolling in their delusion of safety and power…Their forces are weak and divided, blind to the forces that gather against them…"

With a loud blast, one of Lord Valkrum's retinue exploded into smithereens. One of the Leman Russ tanks had apparently decided to make a stand, and a shot from its cannon had found a mark. Its turret was slowly turning to face Lord Valkrum.

The Chaos Lord nonchalantly stretched out his hands towards the tank, a sickly empyrean aura suddenly enveloping his body. With a distinct creak, the tank suddenly began to rise into the air as if an invisible force had grasped and lifted it. Panicked shouts of the unfortunate tank crew issued from within.

"For five hundred years, we Iron Reapers have bid our time rebuilding our ranks from the ashes to which we were cast….Both hatred and glorious promises from the Gods have fueled our drive for revenge…."

The Leman Russ began to creak louder, and its surface began to vibrate ever so gently.

"…..we shall undertake a glorious crusade through the Golden River, sacrificing all those who stand in our way to our masters. Blood will drown out planets, cities will fall to rubbles, and screams of the mortals will make sweet music for our victorious return….."

The tank was positively shaking now, its hinges creaking in protest as pressure mounted from outside.

"But above all…..we shall strike back at those who had banished us. This time, even they, with all their hollow ideals, will bow down in defeat. And we shall heap upon those fools the same destruction they had borne upon us long time ago…."

The Chaos Lord's voice dripped with venom as he uttered the name all the Iron Reapers had learned to hate since eons ago.

"….the White Dragons."

Lord Valkrum closed his fist into a tight ball in a single fluid motion.

With a sickening crunch, the Leman Russ imploded into a crumpled ball of metal and dropped to the ground, oozing with the blood and gore of its former occupants.

Lord Nehemiah Valkrum, the Chapter Master of the Iron Reapers, raised his fist and let out an ear-shattering war cry that reverberated across the vox channel. Mazakash smiled inwardly even as he lent his own voice to the cry. _Gloat and boast all you want for now, Lord Valkrum,_ he thought icily. _Sooner or later, your time will come to an end._

_And when I see you finally on your knees bereft of all your glories, I shall be there to snatch them up. _

The vox channel drowned in cacophony as the battle-brothers took up the cry one by one. At last, after two thousand years, the Iron Reapers were marching to war once again.

**

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****R&R!**

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	6. White Dragons Chapter Profile

**WHITE DRAGONS CHAPTER PROFILE**

**Name:** White Dragons

**Color Scheme:** White armor, viridian eye lenses and pauldron

**Chapter Insignia:** A white serpentine dragon against a viridian background.

**Homeworld:** Aeris Prime

Aeris Prime is a death/mining world, occupied only by a few Adeptus Mechanicus mining facilities aside from the chapter monastery itself. The entire planet is dominated by massive mountain ranges and perpetually covered with snow and ice. Vicious and territorial creatures, such as Daggertooth Tigers and Stone Prowlers, seek out scant prey, while the tallest peaks are inhabited by ferocious Cloudwyrms.

**Numbers:** ~1000 (currently spread across the Segmentum Tempestus)

**Current Chapter Master:** Xiang Wien Li

**Real-world influences:**

Shaolin Temple Monks & Ninjas

**Organization:**

Rather than following the standard Codex, each of the ten companies is structured to be highly independent and capable of operating alone, a trait that allows the White Dragons to deploy its forces in many different warzones simultaneously. A White Dragons 100-man Company is usually divided into ten squads, divided up equally into Veteran, Scout, Assault, Tactical, and Devastator Squads. Each company in turn is supported by its own cadre of Techmarines, Apothecaries, Librarians, Chaplains, and vehicles. Exceptions to this rule are the First Company—made entirely of Terminators—and the Honor Guard, commanded by the Chapter master himself. Lastly, the White Dragons retain a group of loyal serfs who take care of all the logistics and other sundry tasks.

All companies except the First Company take turns garrisoning the Grey Stars from occasional invasions and to provide training for the new recruits. Otherwise, they are almost always engaged in conflicts raging across the Lazarus sector and beyond.

**Equipment:**

Although White Dragons utilize basically the same standard Space Marine equipment as other chapters, the veterans of the chapter are permitted to wield customized and master-crafted weapons and armor, which are especially forged to their tastes by the Master of the Forge upon their induction into the veteran squads. Some common examples may include power swords or custom bolters, but some members are known to yield more "unusual" weapons such as power halberds, bolt carbines, tonfas, and meteor hammers.

White Dragons' power armors also tend to be less ornate than those of other chapters.

**Recruitment & Training:**

Although many White Dragons recruits originate from the Grey Stars, the chapter also draws recruits from the Golden River itself, or occasionally even from outside the sector. The recruiting fleet regularly travels across the sector each year in search of promising candidates, drawing about a couple thousand individuals at a time. The selected recruits are then subject to a grueling two-stage trial to determine their worth, out of which only a handful emerge as aspirants. Even then, the aspirants then undergo a long period of tough combat, tactical, and psychological training regimen, concluded by a tough challenge of hunting down a single Cloudwyrm and bringing back its fang. Only then will the aspirants be ready to receive the transplants and inducted into the Scout Company as initiates.

The White Dragons inevitably share some of their recruiting worlds with the Steel Guardians, who also make home in the Lazarus Sector. The issue is however naturally resolved by the fact that any candidate suitable for the White Dragons is not compatible with the Steel Guardians' gene-seed. As such, the Steel Guardians are known to occasionally send over some recruits over to the White Dragons as a gesture of good will.

**Specialties:**

Rapid Assault, Surgical Strikes, Covert Op & Infiltration, and supporting other Chapters, especially those whose strength had suffered due to recent conflicts and disasters.

The White Dragons are also renowned for their deadly hand-to-hand combat skills.

**Chapter History:**

From the onset of the Horus Heresy, there were some among the Traitor Legions who had resisted the corruption of Chaos and remained faithful to the Emperor in defiance of their Primarchs. Although most loyalists were annihilated during the great betrayal at Isstvan III, the Traitor Legions could not do anything about smaller pockets of loyalists scattered throughout the galaxy serving as envoys, garrisons, or carrying out special missions. One of such groups was the Emperor's Children 29th Company, which had previously been dispatched to assist the beleaguered Imperial forces in Segmentum Tempestus. Free of Chaotic taint that had overtaken the rest of their battle-brothers, the 29th—or the "Penitent" as they later dubbed themselves—represented the last vestige of what was once a supreme fighting force, disciplined and skilled to near-perfection—an ideal their fallen Primarch Fulgrim had been aspiring for.

The 29th did not take the news of the betrayal and of their fallen brethren well. Gripped with grief, anger, and disbelief, they raced back to Terra in full speed confront the truth for themselves, only to hear of the Emperor's ascension to the Golden Throne upon their belated arrival. All that awaited them were suspicion and hostility from the Loyalist Legions who were reluctant to disassociate the 29th from their former brethren. Although declared pure of chaotic taint by the High Lords of Terra, the battle-brothers deemed themselves a failure, a shameful progeny of the one who had turned away from the Emperor and his sacred will. There was only a single option left for redemption—an eternal servitude in the Emperor's name, until every single one of them had breathed their last. In addition, the Penitent also vowed never again to pursue after glory and fame for themselves. They would serve to protect rather than to conquer, work for the people rather than to attain victories, and fight silently away from the spotlight for the sole purpose of servitude of debt to the Emperor. Finally, the brothers swore never to fall into the temptations of the senses and overwhelming emotions, lest they walk the same path as their former brethren.

Throughout the next few millennia, the 29th engaged in series of fierce campaigns that often exacted heavy casualties. Still, the space marines persevered, preserving their legacies through successive generations of new recruits. Over time, the gene-seed of the group underwent a dramatic mutation while the identity of the 29th was remolded around their new doctrines. Donning pure white power armor and adopting a new emblem, these loyalists renamed themselves "White Dragons," in honor of the most ferocious beast inhabiting their new home of Aeris Prime.

**Chapter Doctrine & Ethics:**

The most distinguishing trait for White Dragons lies in their demeanor and _modus operandi_. While most Space Marines readily draw upon their wrath and zeal in combat, the White Dragons instead strive to keep those emotions in check through will and discipline. Indeed, the asset most valued by the White Dragons is inner focus, since they believe blinding oneself with any sort of emotion leads to quick demise, mistakes, and descent into Chaos. The end effect is that a White Dragons Space Marine will always appear eerily calm, collected, and silent even in the thick of battle—indeed, the chapter does not even utter a battle cry—but their combat skills will be exceptional due to unmatched concentration. This however does not mean the White Dragons ban all forms of emotion; they merely emphasize the fact that those primal impulses must be always under constant control, rather than them being the source of their actions.

The White Dragons fight not to win but to protect. Rather than to seek victories and trophies, the chapter places the highest priority on saving lives. This has led the White Dragons to take rearguard actions, defenses, and rescue missions on many occasions, often saving millions of civilians and military personnel. The chapter is famous for maintaining this policy despite how heavy their own losses amount up to. However, their emphasis on protecting lives has earned them a deal of ire from the Inquisition, whose often heavy-handed tactics clash with those of the White Dragons. Nevertheless, the noble actions of the Chapter hence established a favorable reputation among the forces of Imperium, and even today the White Dragons maintain close friendships with other chapters and planets.

**Genetic Traits:**

An anomaly in the chapter's gene-seed prohibits the muscle growth in its members somewhat, retaining only about 80 to 85 percent of normal strength for a Space Marine. This combined with their seemingly pensive and pacifist demeanor had earned them a derisive nickname "Runt Marines" from other chapters. However, the mutation in return greatly increases the marine's agility, reflexes, and senses, in effect more than making up for the reduced strength. This particular aspect therefore makes the White Dragons especially well-suited for countering the Eldar, leading many talented members to serve in Deathwatch kill teams.

**Notable Campaigns:**

Palmyria Crusade: neutralized the Biel-Tan Craftworld Eldar advances by taking out the farseer commander and its entire retinue.

Cleansing of Cratos IV: put down a major Genestealer revolt with help from the PDF

Verbania Campaign: Aided the nearly extinct Scythes of the Emperor Chapter in defending the planet from a Chaos invasion.

Contributed two companies during the Thirteenth Black Crusade

Notable Arch-enemies: The entire Biel-Tan and Ulthwe Craftworlds

Iron Reapers & Knights of Terror Chaos Space Marines

Warboss SkullAkxa, "Terror of Thungard"

The Emperor's Children

**Concerning the Grey Stars:**

A miniscule collection of about a half a dozen systems situated near the edge of Lazarus sector, the Grey Stars is considered an insignificant backwater by the Imperial authorities. Not very rich in minerals or manpower, the region only produces just enough to sustain and defend itself. Although most xeno and Chaos invaders opt to overlook the Grey Stars in favor of more vulnerable and wealthier Golden River, the region still faces its own share of troubles. Thankfully, the vigilance of the White Dragons had so far staved off any invasions into the area, aided by other elements of Imperial forces stationed in the Grey Stars. The Grey Stars is governed by a council of planetary governors and a single Adeptus Mechanicus representative, headed by the White Dragons Chapter Master.

**Some notable Worlds within the Grey Stars:**

-Kaminus: This sole forge world in the Grey Stars is managed by an eccentric Magos whose unorthodox emphasis on innovation and experiments rather than sacred rituals had alienated him from the rest of the Adeptus Mechanicus—hence his unofficial "banishment" to the Grey Stars. Aside from providing equipment and material to the White Dragons, the Magos often uses the chapter to test out his new inventions….with mixed results.

Kaminus also retains a cadre of skitarii for its own planetary defense.

-The Plataea System: Mainly comprised of minor hive and industrial worlds, this prominent system is home to the Plataean Storm Guards. Despite their relatively small regimental size, these brave men and women have solidly proven their worth and dedication to the Emperor in many campaigns so far. They specialize in armored assaults, supported by scores of gunships.

-Sangralion: This feudal world would've been deemed insignificant if it hadn't proven itself to be such an excellent recruiting ground for the White Dragons. The savage and hardy barbarian tribes supply the chapter with fresh battle-brothers, while the nomadic shaman clans often yield potent psykers ready to be trained as chapter Librarians. The Mechanicus also has presence here, as a few artifacts from the Dark Age of Technology have been discovered on the planet recently.

-Aeris Prime, home world of the White Dragons chapter

**If you wish to make additional contributions & suggestions to this info, please feel free to contact me over PMs...**


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